“I have to go along quietly,” said the rabbit. “I have to sneak around, for there are so many hunters and dogs, who are always on the lookout for us poor rabbits. This spring I had thirty-three sons and daughters and now—now I am a widower with only seventeen children. Only last night I had to call in old Doc. Woodchuck to take some shot out of my oldest boy’s skin.”
“Ah, Mr. Rabbit,” cried the Poet, “your sad story has given me an idea for a verse. While you were talking to my friends here I have been scribbling and with your kind permission I’ll recite what I’ve written.”
“I would be delighted to hear it if it isn’t too long,” said the rabbit. “You see, I’ve got to always be on the jump; can’t stay very long in one place.”
“This verse is very short,” said the Poet. “In fact, it is no longer than its name. It’s called ‘The Tale of a Rabbit.’”
“The rabbit’s life is full of strife,
His days are short and few;
For dodging shot becomes his lot
From the cradle to the stew.”
“A very truthful and beautiful piece of poetry,” said the rabbit, brushing a tear from his furry cheek. “I hope you will excuse me now, for I must hurry home and call the roll and see whether any more of my children are missing.”